“Eeeeeewwww,” she said, and Cody whispered, “Ha.”
“But more important, there will also be stupid dancing and ugly shirts, and these are not good for you to see. You would lose all your respect for grown-ups.”
“What respect?” Cody said, and I shook him by the hand.
“Well said,” I told him. “Now go to your room.”
Astor finally giggled. “But we want to go to the party,” she said.
“I’m afraid not,” I said. “But I brought you a piece of trea-sure so you won’t run away.” I handed her a roll of Necco wafers, our secret currency. She would split it evenly with Cody later, out of sig
ht of all prying eyes. “Now then, young 2 1 2
J E F F L I N D S A Y
persons,” I said. They looked up at me expectantly. But at that point I was stuck, all aquiver with eagerness to know the answer but not at all sure where or even how to start asking. I could not very well say, “By the way, Cody, I was wondering if you like to kill things?” That, of course, was exactly what I wanted to know, but it didn’t really seem like the kind of thing you could say to a child—especially Cody, who was generally about as talkative as a coconut.
His sister, Astor, though, often seemed to speak for him.
The pressures of spending their early childhood together with a violent ogre for a father had created a symbiotic relationship so close that when he drank soda she would burp. Whatever might be going on inside Cody, Astor would be able to express it.
“Can I ask something very serious?” I said, and they exchanged a look that contained an entire conversation, but said nothing to anyone else. Then they nodded to me, almost as if their heads were mounted together on a Foosball rod.
“The neighbor’s dog,” I said.
“Told you,” Cody said.
“He was always knocking over the garbage,” Astor said.
“And pooping in our yard. And Nicky tried to make him bite us.”
“So Cody took care of him?” I asked.
“He’s the boy,” said Astor. “He likes to do that stuff. I just watch. Are you going to tell Mom?”
There it was. He likes to do that stuff. I looked at the two of them, watching me with no more worry than if they had just said they liked vanilla ice cream better than strawberry.
“I won’t tell your mom,” I said. “But you can’t tell anybody D E A R LY D E V O T E D D E X T E R
2 1 3
else in the world, not ever. Just the three of us, nobody else, understand?”
“Okay,” Astor said, with a glance at her brother. “But why, Dexter?”
“Most people won’t understand,” I said. “Not even your mom.”
“You do,” said Cody in his husky near-whisper.
“Yes,” I said. “And I can help.” I took a deep breath and felt an echo rolling through my bones, down across the years from Harry so long ago to me right now, under the same Florida nightscape Harry and I had stood under when he said the same thing to me. “We have to get you squared away,” I said, and Cody looked at me with large blinkless eyes and nodded.
“Okay,” he said.
C H A P T E R 2 3
Vince masuoka had a small house in north Miami, at the end of a dead-end street off N.E. 125th Street. It was painted pale yellow with pastel purple trim, which really made me question my taste in associates. There were a few very well-barbered bushes in the front yard and a cactus garden by the front door, and he had a row of those solar-powered lamps lighting the cobblestone walkway to his front door.
I had been there once before, a little more than a year ago, when Vince had decided for some reason to have a costume party. I had taken Rita, since the whole purpose of having a disguise is to be seen wearing it. She had gone as Peter Pan, and I was Zorro, of course; the Dark Avenger with a ready blade. Vince had answered the door in a body-hugging satin gown with a basket of fruit on his head.